The cold, sterile walls of the prison holding room echoed with the sound of footsteps and distant doors clanging shut. Isabella Richard sat stiffly on the metallic bench, her once-impeccable hair disheveled, her designer dress now wrinkled and soiled.

Across the cell block, Collins Hager paced like a caged animal. The man who had once painted beautiful chaos on canvas now looked like the chaos had consumed him. His eyes were bloodshot, his beard unkempt, and his hands trembled—not from fear, but from rage.

"How did we let it get this far?" Collins muttered, running a hand through his hair. "We should've waited. Struck later. Not at the wedding."

Isabella...